Born into Silence: In Memory of My Son

⚠️ Content Warning: Trigger warning added for photos of my stillborn son at the bottom of this post. Please proceed with caution.

My son died.

Two years ago, on August 18th, 2023, I delivered my stillborn son.

He was 21 weeks gestation — five months along. Over halfway through my pregnancy. From six weeks on, it had been a brutal, unrelenting battle. I had a subchorionic hematoma — a pool of blood collecting behind the placenta. Doctors don’t really have “real” answers for why they form. I’d had one twice before, and both of those pregnancies ended with full-term, healthy babies. But with Khi, it was Hell.

I hemorrhaged at least twice a week for five months. Horrendously. To the point that hospitals knew my name before I even made it to triage. Every gush of blood felt like a countdown clock ticking louder in my head. My health declined quickly. At nineteen weeks, I went into preterm labor. They didn’t stop it because he wasn’t “viable.” Luckily, it stopped on its own. I thought maybe that was my miracle.

Two weeks later, the contractions returned. This time, they didn’t stop. Six hours later, at 7:26 a.m., my son was born into silence.

I had given birth to seven children before him. Every single one had filled the room with the kind of cry that instantly cracks your heart wide open — that wild, raw proof of life. But Malakhi was still. Silent. Wrapped in a stillness so heavy it felt like the air was pressing me into the bed. I was terrified to touch him at first. The nurse weighed and measured him — 5.6 ounces, 8 inches long — put a tiny hat on his head, wrapped him in a blanket no bigger than a dish towel, and laid him on my chest.

She took a picture, and then my blood pressure bottomed out. I was rushed to the OR for a D&C as I hemorrhaged again. My heart stopped on the table. They brought me back, but I was still teetering on the edge.

When I woke up two hours later, I demanded to hold my son. I had four blood transfusions over the next 24 hours, but in between the needles and monitors, I held him. I sang lullabies to him. I whispered the same things I’d whispered to my living children. I told him how loved he was. I stroked his tiny hands, memorizing their shape, knowing it was all I’d ever get.

And then I had to call funeral homes. I had to hand my baby to a stranger and watch him leave in their arms. Two days later, the funeral home called. I filled out paperwork — the only official document that will ever carry his name, birth date, and weight. He didn’t get a birth certificate. Or a death certificate. Because he was considered “not viable,” the state says he doesn’t exist.

When I picked up his ashes days later, the container weighed almost nothing. I don’t even remember breathing on the drive home.

I named him Malakhi because it means God is my messenger. His middle name, Eugene, was in honor of my grandfather — the strongest, most stubborn man I ever knew. Just like my Khi because he fought so fucking hard all the way until the end. Together, his name means a noble messenger of God — and that’s exactly who he was. He came into this world carrying a message I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to understand. I believe with everything in me that God sent him to me for a reason, even if I may never fully know why on this side of Heaven.

My faith is the only reason I’m still breathing after losing him — the only thing that has kept me from collapsing completely under the weight of this grief.

The grief of a stillborn child is something words will never fully hold. It’s the phantom weight of a baby you’ll never carry to the car. The milk that comes in with no mouth to feed. The physical recovery without a baby to snuggle. The crib you take apart in silence. The sound of your living children crying because they don’t understand why their baby brother isn’t coming home. It’s the hospital discharge papers in your hand while your arms are empty. It’s trying to survive the kind of quiet that is so unnatural it shakes your soul.

And it’s the way people don’t say his name. As if avoiding it will save me from pain. But the truth is, not saying his name hurts more. Saying his name tells me you remember him, that you know he was real, that his life — however short — mattered. His name is all I have left of him in this world.

Stillbirth grief is different. And the way the world treats it makes it even harder. If your baby lived even a few hours outside the womb, they are “real” in people’s eyes. But if they died before birth, society tries to tuck them away in the shadows — as if our babies were somehow less human because they never took a breath. We’re expected to “move on” quickly, as if the lack of memories makes the loss lighter. But for parents like me, the absence of memories is the heaviest part.

We grieve what never had the chance to happen. First smiles. First steps. The chaos of birthday parties. The voice we’ll never hear. The hand we’ll never hold as they cross the street. Stillbirth grief is a lifelong ache for all the pages of the story that were never written. And when the people around us avoid our baby’s name, or act like they never existed, it feels like they’re ripping out what few pages we were given.

So I will say his name. Over and over.

My son’s name is Malakhi Eugene Maddox.

He was here. He was mine. He is loved beyond measure.

In Loving Memory:

Some only dream of angels, I held one in my arms.

Malakhi Eugene Maddox

5.6 oz, 8"

08/18/2023